Burned House
by KuraiArcoiris
Summary: When a house burns, you can build a new one, but you can't get the old one back. And if it's cursed, doubly so. In which there is no getting back a mind once it is erased because Bill made sure of it. And all Stanford can do is try to preserve the burnt pieces.


The six-fingered man gave him that ridiculously weak smile that was supposed to reassure him. Seriously if you wanted to reassure someone, that tense pulling of the lips sure won't do the job. You had to show teeth and stretch your lips wide enough to get across that there's nothing to worry about because hey, you've got this covered. And you can't stretch your lips all the way or else people will know you're trying too hard. Yeah, that guy was definitely doing it wrong.

But then, what did he really know? He didn't even really know _how_ he knew the way to fake a smile. But he did _know_ how. And that guy wasn't doing it right. Any fool could see through that tight-lipped, too-wide supposed-to-be-a-smile. And if they didn't the sharp…what was this pressing against his throat exactly? A knife-shaped fin? A sharp tentacle? Some coral version of an equip-able pocket knife? The sharp whatever-it-was pressed against his windpipe in an impossible-to-ignore manner. Yeah, so that ridiculous expression on that guy's face did nothing for him.

"Surely there is something we could work out, something we could trade for causing you such trouble," said the six-fingered man. He kept forgetting the man's name. Did it start with a K? Or was it an F? An S maybe? No, his own name started with an S. That's what the six-fingered man had said—Stanley. His name was Stanley. He was Stanley.

"What do you think you could possibly trade that would make up for what you've done? I waited 50 years for my beloved to rouse from her slumber," said a high-pitched voice in stereo. A voice so high-pitched should have hurt to hear, but since it reverberated straight into Stanley's brain, he only winced in imagined pain. Or he hoped it was imagined. Stanley knew that if the squid-jellyfish thing decided to, it could probably really hurt him and not with its voice. And the sharp maybe-a-tentacle-thing pressed against Stanley's neck could do more than just hurt Stanley.

Stanley. The name felt one syllable too many. Didn't those kids from the broken-down hut call him something with one-syllable? Uncle something? No, it wasn't uncle but something like it….He hated when he had episodes like this in moments like now. He shouldn't get distracted from the danger at his throat. Now was not the time to be trying to figure out who exactly he was. It wasn't like he would remember later even if he could finally figure it out.

"We didn't know what—I mean who, who of course—she was. We were just researching—"

"Save your excuses! None of them change the fact that she's gone! She's gone for another 50 years!" screeched the squid-jellyfish thing. And Stanley (he was holding onto that name while he could) had been very wrong to think that a voice inside your head couldn't hurt. A piercing pain cut his cringe short as the sharp might-be-a-fin dug into his skin.

"Please," the six-fingered man begged, dropping the pathetic smile for an altogether worse expression. He looked like someone had killed a pug-puppy in front of him. "Please! Let him go!"

"No," the squid-jellyfish thing squeaked. Not very terrifying by itself, but the sharp could-be-a-coral-pocket-knife helped. "You took away my whole world, and now I'll destroy yours."

"No, please. Please, take me instead! I'll do whatever you want, just let him go!" cried the six-fingered man, and was he crying? The six-fingered man didn't move to wipe his wrinkled cheeks as he reached out as if he could stretch the seven or eight feet up to where Stanley dangled in the monster's grasp.

"Suffer as I've suffered!" yelled the monster. A monster, that's what this stupid thing was. It couldn't be any less, not when it caused that wrenching expression on the six-fingered man's face. Stanley definitely preferred the idiotic attempt at a smile from earlier. Vanishing his wondering thoughts, Stanley focused on one thing: this monster was getting what was coming to it.

"Hey, you made-of-mind-jelly poor excuse for a sea monster! If you wanna stab someone, then you should just do it!" yelled Stanley as he used a strength he didn't remember he had and pulled the sharp definitely-a-monster's-tentacle away from his neck.

Allowing himself to fall under the tentacle, he swung himself far enough up to leverage the tentacle straight towards the mind-jelly monster's sorta-a-head and pierce straight through soft plastic-y flesh (or whatever it was), and a screech wordlessly screamed through his head. Instinctively he let go of the tentacle thing to cover his ear and let himself fall further down towards the sea. Heh. At least he had managed to remember that the six-fingered man had explained that it was made of mind jelly. Though it figures he would remember something now.

A grip on the hood of his jacket jerked his fall to a stop, his legs dangling a few feet from the water's surface. The screeching had stopped, and another noise sounded through his head. Only he was pretty sure this one actually came through his ears.

"-ley! What did you think you were doing?"

"Getting myself outta that monster's tentacles. Yeesh, if I waited around for you, I'd probably have drowned in my own blood," he sniped back. The sudden silence settled in a ball in his throat. He shouldn't have said that. He knew he shouldn't have said that like he knew how to fake a smile. He was an idiot, and _he shouldn't have said that._ Strong, six-fingered hands pulled back onto the ship without even a grunt, and Stanley didn't want to look. He _knew_ that he'd like the look on the six-fingered man's face now least of all.

"Look," Stanley started, hoping that his stupid mouth would come up with something that would erase the (devastated) horrible look on that way-too-honest face. "I didn't mean—"

Those same six-fingered strong hands gripped Stanley's back between his shoulder blades as the dreaded, unseen face hooked itself over between his neck and shoulder.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" The words came out rough and ragged close to Stanley's ear. "Why can't I ever save you once? Even with your memory gone…" A tight squeeze drained Stanley's lungs of air. "You're still so much you, Stanley."

"It's alright," Stanley managed to strangle out as he awkwardly patted the man on the back. He had somehow managed to squirm his arms out and under the man's own. "Look, I know you would have saved me if you could, but talking to that monster wasn't going to work out. That's why you said you brought me out here, right? To knock things like that out when your talking-smart method doesn't work out."

A chuckle vibrated through Stanley's frame, and he allowed himself to sink into the embrace. Something about this man's embrace felt comforting, familial even. Like he wanted this. Like this fit. He pushed down the frustration that came from unrecallable memories.

"Talking-smart has always been your forte," came the wet whisper.

"Oh," said Stanley shuffling uncomfortably. The hug had gone to long, but the six-fingered man hadn't let go. Instead at Stanley's shuffling, the man's grip tightened. Stanley had to make him let go soon though because not breathing could be hazardous to one's health.

"…I miss you."

Stanley swallowed back the words that automatically sprung to his lips: _he was right here…what did the man expect?...he missed himself too_.

The six-fingered man gave one last squeeze before pulling away. Stanley stepped back so that he wouldn't end up pulling himself back in. His body automatically wanted to return to the awkward hug.

"So, no more snooping around large glowing rocks," said the six-fingered man as he wiped furiously at his eyes under his lenses. "Or perhaps simply not touching them unless 100% certain that they are not sentient beings that fall asleep at being touched like the _mimosa pudica._ Though it doesn't go to sleep so much as it—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," interrupted Stanley. "Don't touch glowing rocks."

"That's the short version, yes." The six-fingered man continued to wipe his eyes, and Stanley pretended not to notice. He still couldn't remember the man's name, but he couldn't ask. He _knew_ enough to know that now wasn't the time to ask. Though Stanley was pretty sure the Tuesday after never was probably the best time to ask that question. He crossed his arms and looked to the left, trying to think of what to say now. "It's the same as yours."

"What?" blurted Stanley. Had he zoned out long enough to miss part of the conversation?

"My name's the same as yours. Makes it easier to remember. If you remember your name, you remember mine," said the six-fingered man with the smile from earlier plastered on his face. If Stan remembered, then he would definitely teach this guy to fake a smile properly. This guy couldn't fool a child with that smile let alone Stan—wait. Stanley. Stan. Stan was short for Stanley. And this man's name was Stan too.

"Stan," Stanley tested out loud. "You're name's Stan-something, like mine's Stan-ley."

"Yep. But you can call me Stan for short," said the six-fingered man smiling. Stanley frowned. That name wasn't right. He knew it wasn't right. But…but he couldn't remember what was. He most likely wouldn't remember this conversation later either. He'd most likely have to suffer through seeing the six-fingered man's face—Stan's face?—twist and shatter and remember it wearing no other expression other than that one. The one Stan dreaded more than any other even if he didn't remember. But he remembered enough now, and he knew enough. And Stanley would fight to keep it that way for as long as he could.

"Alright, whatever. Where to next, Stan?" asked Stanley, and the unbearable smile on the man's face shifted into something more acceptable.

"How about we try to find that pack of migrating merpeople we found traces of three clicks south of here? Perhaps they know more about these _mimosa pudica_ type creatures."

"Fine. As long as you remind me not to touch anymore glowing rocks," said Stan, and instantly regret and anger clawed at his heart. The worst expression had re-crossed the other Stan's face. Darkness, deep and full, painted brown eyes near black, and lips twisted downwards as if they had never attempted to smile. Wrinkles criss-crossed shadows that appeared tattooed on the man's face. His heart bled under the pressure, and he wondered what had caused such heartbreak to carve itself on to the man's face. Panic seized him as he realized he knew nothing except that this man's heartache.

And then the man forced the twisted lips into a smile-like grimace as the shadows underlined his eyes, making the whole face gruesome to look at for some unknowable (unrecallable) reason.

"Don't worry, Stanley," said the man. He had six-fingers on each hand, and that couldn't be normal could it? And who was Stanley? "I'll remind you."

* * *

A/N: I don't normal write author's notes, but I figured this fic might confusing enough to warrant an entirely-too-long explanation. I put it here at the end though so no one had to read it if they didn't want to.

First, random trivia: The title is based on the song _Burning House_ by cam that was the soundtrack of an awesome Stanley Pines AMV on youtube.

Now, for the important part: In this universe, the finale happened with one major change. With his final breath (or whatever dream demon's take) Bill cursed Stanley never to regain his memories. Specifically every time Stanley notes family's broken hearts (like in the expression on his brother's face), Stanley's memory would reset. Because Bill was a bit miffed about being destroyed and wanted to cause the most suffering possible.

Stanley sort of knows why his memory keeps resetting, because he tried to engrave the idea of the curse into himself before his memory was wiped. That's Stanley. Always looking for a loophole. Unfortunately, Stanley is very perceptive when it comes to people, especially his family (even in his constantly forgetful state - because he knows them in his heart if not in his head), and so he notes their heartbreak too easily. Also unfortunately, Ford has no clue what resets Stanley's memories, and living with a brother who never fully remembers him and who he can never truly reconcile breaks Ford in ways he didn't think were possible.

And in case anyone's wondering, yes, the curse does extend to Mabel and Dipper. But not Soos and Wendy, even though they're heartbroken and family too. Bill only meant for the curse to extend to blood family, because it would be too obvious if it happened with Soos and Wendy. At least Wendy would suss it out because she would catch on to the pattern (mostly since she's just enough steps removed from the situation to see it). And Soos and not Wendy would have made the curse too complicated for Bill to cast in his last moments. Bill is a jerk.

Lastly, this is the worst thing I have ever written. I don't normally write hopeless tragedies but this one...it needed to be written. Because actions have consequences, and pink scrapbooks can't magic them away anywhere other than Disney (and if that's not a reason to love Disney, what is?). If you want to imagine a happier ending, just imagine Ford figuring out the pattern, and the joy of knowing he can help his brother outweighing his heartbreak so the two learned to be happy with a Stanley who at least keeps his more recent memories. And that happiness breaks the demon's curse and gets Stanley his memory back. Yeah. Imagine that. it is not that much less believable than magic pink scrapbooks and much better than this ending.


End file.
